


a hope in hell

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Character Death Fix, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 14:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4524750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you open the door you find a seadweller crumpled there, violet blood smeared down the metal and splashed across the chitin of his armor. You can smell it, tangy salt and copper, the scent stirring the primitive instincts in your hindpan that tell you to be prepared to fight.</p>
<p>The seadweller looks up at you and takes a rattling breath. "Lemme in."</p>
            </blockquote>





	a hope in hell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [temporalDecay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/gifts).



When the pounding at your front hiveportal begins, you assume at first that it must be Mindfang. Who else do you know that would flout Imperial decree and come to visit you in your wretched state? 

You are, thus, somewhat slow to go answer the summons; you have been in cahoots with her on some few occasions, but you know that her arrival portends only aggravation and unwelcome obligations. But the knocking continues, alternately imperious and ragged, and eventually you are forced to concede that ignoring this problem will not make it go away.

It is not, in fact, the Marquise darkening your doorstep. When you open the door you find a seadweller crumpled there, violet blood smeared down the metal and splashed across the chitin of his armor. You can smell it, tangy salt and copper, the scent stirring the primitive instincts in your hindpan that tell you to be prepared to fight.

The seadweller looks up at you and takes a rattling breath. "Lemme in."

You step back from the doorway to allow him entrance. He rasps a litany of nautical curses as he crawls—crawls!—over the threshold and then slumps against the wall inside, panting with the effort. You close the door and lock it. There's blood everywhere. You haven't seen such haphazardly spilled blood since you were e%iled, and never in such a regal color.

Belatedly, it occurs to you that anything or anyone that could leave a seadweller in such a state is probably a threat you should be aware of. "If I may be so bold, your grace, what attacked you?"

"Gran' Highblood," he says, sneering as if the title is an affront.

You are appalled. You can't possibly—even in your disgrace, you can't possibly deliberately defy the Highblood. "If he sends someone after you, here," you begin.

"I outrank him, y'piece a shit," the seadweller snarls, lifting his chin and baring his bloodied fangs. "Anyone he sends here, you get rid of. 'S an order."

The selfish arrogance of the demand takes your breath away, and you carefully throttle the answering fury. Part of you admires him for it, at the same time; it is a bold and noble declaration of the power the royal blood commands.

"Is that all you require of me," you ask stiffly, "or have you further orders?"

"Get me to 'coon," he says. "Needa sleep this off."

You have no spare recuperacoon. You are intended to be in isolation; there should never be a quadrantmate or ally here to require a second set of accommodations. But an order is an order, so you will relinquish your own at least for today.

"Brace yourself, please," you say, and kneel down to lift him.

He is heavy for his size, though you cannot be sure how much of that is thanks to his armor and how much is simply the density of muscle. He holds himself stiff and rigid as you pick him up, barely breathing; this must be a humiliation for him, to be carried like a war prize, and oh, you will try your best not to draw his attention to that indignity. You're sweating under your uniform just thinking about it.

You carry him to your recuperacoon and remove his armor, working as briskly as you can while he grits his fangs in silent discomfort. The shirt beneath is a wreck, ripped and sticking to his injuries, and you tear it along the seams to remove it. His trousers would honestly benefit from similar treatment, but your sense of propriety won't allow you to take liberties that far. You deposit him in your recuperacoon half-dressed and still bloody, looking away as soon as you're certain he's submerging properly. The relief on his face was not something for you to see.

* * *

It takes the better part of an hour to adequately wash his blood from your doorstep, floor, and walls. Then, for lack of anything more compelling to do, you take his armor to your workshop and begin to clean it. It might be repairable, after all, and it might tell you something about your guest. You wash away the blood, examining the radiant fractures in the chitin, the deep scratches where the surface has been scored. You can picture each impact of the Highblood's clubs, and you find yourself quietly in awe of the stubborn determination it must have taken to survive such an assault.

The repeating jagged motif around the edges of the chitin plates is his sign, you realize, and with that his identity becomes clear: you never met the Orphaner Dualscar but you knew of him, both by reputation for his titular duties and through Mindfang's gleeful tales of besting her kismesis in one arena or another. _That_ is the troll now requiring your hospitality, whatever the truth of him is beneath the exaggerated tales.

You do not go gawk at him unconscious in your recuperacoon after this realization. It would be beneath you.

Instead you make such repairs on his armor as you can with the materials at hand, then return to your own work and do your best to put him out of your mind. This is nowhere near the first time you've stayed up all day with a project; indeed, now that you have no imperial responsibilities to make demands on your time, it happens somewhat frequently. You doze off occasionally, but never for long; you are not rested when evening comes.

He will probably be awake, now or at the very least soon. You should go see how he fares.

He is indeed awake, and watching the doorway when you enter. His fins flare briefly in what looks like a primitive threat display, but he subsides quickly. "Evening," he says. You can't tell if he's actually being blunt and unpleasant or if you're simply expecting no better.

"Your grace," you say. Politeness will serve you in either case. "I thought if you were feeling well enough you might appreciate some food."

"An a hand outta this tub, too," he says, rapping his knuckles against the recuperacoon's side.

"As you wish," you say. Even if he is being unpleasant, there's something oddly comforting about it, some echo of what it was like to have a life and to see other trolls. You are forbidden to have that now, you remind yourself. But maybe a little unwarranted kindness won't hurt anything.

* * *

Later, in the course of conversation, you discover that he learned of your exile and location from Mindfang. You can't imagine she was gentle about her explanation. She has a gift for rendering people's exploits in the most tawdry and pathetic terms possible. You admit your story is particularly susceptible to that sort of treatment.

"Is it possible," you ask, "that she might suspect you sought refuge here?"

"Possible, sure. I'd give it likely." Dualscar sits watching you, half-reclined on a relaxation bench, propped up by pillows. "But the bitch can't say so to anybody without tipping her hand about having you in her pocket, and she hates giving up anything she thinks she can use."

You might make a face of some sort at that assessment. It's not that it's not _true_ , but that's an awfully bald-faced way of stating it.

Dualscar snorts. "What, did you think it was more mutual than all that? Thought you could honestly be in cahoots with someone of her caliber?" Your shoulders stiffen and your hands clench as you try to find a way to reproach him for his assumptions, and he grins. "Don't like hearing it, do you. Gonna come at me, bro?"

"You sound as though you want me to," you say. "Which would be foolish."

"Don't tell me it's romantic. You don't have a hope in hell. The fuckin sofa's got as much of a chance at getting her to the pail as you do."

Is he flirting? God. What do you do if he is? "Please don't strain yourself, your grace," you say. "You need more time to recover."

"God, I hate you," he says, flopping back against the cushions.

You hold very still. "I will not hold you to anything you say in your compromised state." He sneers at you, fins flaring. You bow and abscond.

He _could_ be quite detestable, honestly, were he in better health. He is handsome, arrogant, reckless enough to make enemies with Mindfang, strong enough to survive an assault by the Grand Highblood, both noble-blooded and aggravatingly crass. But he also has multiple cracked ribs, torn gills, and whole constellations of bruises right now, which state does not lend itself well at all to pitch sentiments.

* * *

You avoid him for the next few days all the same. You send an automaton to bring him food at intervals and hope he's entertaining himself without destroying anything too difficult to replace. You keep yourself occupied by siphoning off a portion of the sopor slime from your recuperacoon and designing a system of patches, pumps, and filters that will allow you to get some rest while he is still commandeering your resources.

Eventually your automaton returns to you after a mealtime bearing a note. _sorry i wvas too forvward for your sensibilities there. come talk to me again. it's lonely as shit in this cavwe._

You comply. He is far less combative this time, despite being in better condition to support such an attitude. The two of you manage an hour of relatively civil conversation, by the end of which you are thoroughly hoarse. The following night he tracks you down in your workshop and it happens again. You argue, but without the desperate cruelty of that first instance. He is more animated but less aggressive.

* * *

It becomes something close to a routine. He demands to know how you're getting any sleep, and seems impressed by your solution. You suggest that he climb the hills around your cavern to help recover his strength, and allow yourself to be dragged along. Quietly and insistently, like a barnacle (you don't make that comparison aloud), he makes himself an unauthorized but implacable part of your nights.

* * *

"Hey." You are bent over a complicated mechanical joint, trying to finesse a bent corner back into shape. "Hey." It's delicate work; you don't need to have your concentration tested. "Are you fuckin ignoring me?"

When Dualscar actually prods you in the side, you startle, and have to drop your tools to keep from accidentally breaking anything. 

You glare at him. "Don't you have anything better to do than harass me at work?"

"I kinda really don't," he says, unrepentant. "You have any idea how long you've been face-down in that scrapheap? Cause by my count you're past due for like two meals by now."

You push your goggles up to your forehead and stare at him with your naked eyes. "I don't need to be taken care of," you say. "And even if I did it's expressly forbidden."

Dualscar rolls his eyes. "That's a load a hoofbeast shit, and you know it, or else you're a sight less clever than you seem."

"You will not convince me by layering compliments in with your rudeness."

"Cause you're a stubborn ass," he says, but with a smile.

"They say it takes one to know one," you retort. His smile gets wider and you find yourself wavering in your determination to keep working; there's something unfamiliar and pleasant in this moment.

"Yeah," he agrees. "So come get some damn food already." And he lays a hand flat across your cheek.

Your eyes go very wide. You break out in a sweat. "I'm not—"

"Shoosh, meatball," Dualscar says, pressing his thumb to your lips to enforce the command. "I'm not your meant-to-be feral heretic, I get that. But you fixed me up pretty good when I needed it, and you're a wreck that needs whipping into shape, and I got no place to go anymore, so... let's just see where this goes, right?"

You stare at him. This isn't a grand romance, it's true, but perhaps you forfeited the right to those when you betrayed the Empire. It's still been comforting, having him here. Having someone to interrupt the silence. Having someone to be responsible for.

When he takes his hand away, you nod. "All right," you agree. "Let's see where this goes."

"Great." He takes you by the wrist and pulls. "For starters, it goes to the kitchen."


End file.
